What Hurts the Most
by Suncesco
Summary: Even though Watson sat just before him, Holmes was completely and utterly alone. Warning: Non-explicit slash, character death and suicidal themes.


**-BACKGROUND INFO-**

After I wrote this, I read over it and realized it sounded very OOC. I mean, it's slash, obviously it's going to be at least a little OOC, but Holmes would never... do what he did at the end of this fic just because he was a little angsty. But then I started thinking, what if he was more than a little angsty? What if there weren't any interesting cases (and hadn't been any in quite a while), what if Watson was getting married soon, what if Holmes was sick of cocaine and morphine... What if? What if a series of events threw Holmes into deep depression? What if he thought he saw a way out?

So there's my reasoning behind the story. R&R when you're done, please!

* * *

Holmes sat on the floor, long legs crossed, hands holding the back of his head, and stared. His tired grey eyes traced the profile of the sleeping doctor's face, the fire behind it gently illuminating his peaceful visage. Both men breathed deeply, Holmes more so than Watson. He could feel the tears beginning to pool in his eyes. No, he told himself. You told yourself you wouldn't let that happen again.

He swallowed the lump in the back of his throat and tried to blink away the tears. Watson does not love you, he attempted to convince himself. He is not in the slightest way romantically inclined towards you. Give up. You are fighting an impossible battle against yourself. The best thing for the both of you would be to back down and accept the fact that Watson. Does. Not. Love. You.

A single drop rolled down the thin detective's cheek. No, he scolded himself. Stop. There is nothing to cry about. You cannot love him. You WILL not love him.

The doctor stirred a bit from his place on Holmes' armchair. He snuffled a little in his slumber. Suddenly, Holmes felt something deep inside of him snap. He no longer cared that his longing was selfish and unrequited. For his entire life, he had felt almost nothing but cold indifference towards everything and everybody he encountered. That is, until John Watson came to live with him. That's when his whole world was thrust upon it's head. He felt almost... Dare he say human? Dare he say that he, Sherlock Holmes, cold, sociopathic, Sherlock Holmes, had felt an emotion as strong as what he felt now? Dare he say that he loved another human being?

His gaze intensified as he stared deeply at the fair doctor's sleeping face. He wanted to try something. Society would tell him not to. Had that ever stopped him before?

Holmes lowered his hands to his knees. He desperately desired to move closer to the man opposite him, but the thought of rejection kept him stationary. He sat in immobile, conflicted silence. He wanted to cry out with the hopelessness of it all.

Then another wave of bold defiance rushed over him. It filled up his entire being, and he once again lost all that had previously held him back. Holmes crept forward on the floor, his hands and knees barely making a sound as he advanced towards his sleeping companion.

He rose from a crouch to a kneel next to the chair that cradled Watson in the soft firelight. The doctor's features were bathed in the warm light. Holmes' breathing quickened, his heart raced. He felt little surges of adrenalin rushing through his veins. He leaned in and took a deep breath of the good doctor's scent. His gaze fell upon the slumbering man's closed eyelids, then slid slowly down his nose to his slightly parted lips. They looked warm and inviting. He moved his own mouth above Watson's and gently closed his eyes. It was happening, he thought to himself. His pulsed threatened to burst every blood vessel in his body as he tilted his head and pressed his lips against Watson's. For a brief moment, he was blissfully, blindly happy. Then he felt the mouth beneath his own close and pull back, along with an almost inaudible gasp. Watson had awakened.

Holmes reluctantly moved his face away from his companion's. He hadn't expected this. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor as he sat back on his feet, cheeks ruddy with embarrassment.

"Holmes?" Watson's voice was hoarse.

He forced his eyes up. The face above him was staring at him intensely. The expression it held was of pure and utmost shock and disgust.

"I'm..." Holmes choked out, tears once again welling up in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

His face burning with shame, he brought himself to his feet and swiftly fled to the door. The legs that carried his body down the stairs and onto the dark, lonely street were not his own. Sobs racked his thin frame as he ran down Baker Street.

At the end of the street, he allowed himself to let out an agonizing cry. He didn't care what people thought. Let them know. Let them know that this was the last night in the life of Sherlock Holmes.

He ran as fast as his convulsing body would let him. The Thames was just ahead now. He had nothing more to live for.

The last thing he heard before plunging into the cold, unforgiving waters of the river below was Watson's voice calling his name.

**A/N**: I was in kind of a dark place when I wrote this. I hope it wasn't too bad. It feels weird to me


End file.
